


hold you dear

by Philosoferre



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: 5+1 Things, Fluff, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Love Confessions, M/M, Sharing a Bed, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, just overall softness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-29
Updated: 2020-10-29
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:33:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27254989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Philosoferre/pseuds/Philosoferre
Summary: Geralt watches the men with a disinterested gaze, only letting out a deep, rumbling hum when they pass by the table. And then he suddenly snaps his eyes back to Jaskier and frowns.“A room?” he asks.It took him long enough to catch on. Jaskier nervously chuckles, rubs the back of his neck, squirms in his seat; the way Geralt’s looking at him—not quite annoyance, not quite hatred, mostly just very scary—is making him uneasy.“Uh,” he says, waving his hand in what he hopes is a casual, dismissive gesture, “well, you see, when I said I had to budget because we’re almost out of money, um—I could only afford to get us one room, since, y’know, we have to eat too and I’m not just going to let us starve so we can have a bit of privacy and anyway, I feel like we’ve known each other long enough that it wouldn’t be an—”Geralt hasn’t stopped frowning. Jaskier swallows, and suddenly, he’s very hot, and the room is suffocating, and the fabric of his shirt is ridiculously itchy.“—issue,” he finishes, the word fading on his tongue.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 55
Kudos: 507
Collections: Five times a character did something cute and one that I saved it as a bookmark





	hold you dear

**Author's Note:**

> hello new fandom! i knew the first time i saw geralt & jaskier that i'd fall in love with them - and here we are. shout out to my sister for listening to me scream about these two like 24/7 
> 
> the title of this fic comes from the song hold you dear by the secret sisters (the alternate title, courtesy of my sister, is "hug me, geralt")
> 
> i hope you enjoy! :)

**1.**

“So,” Jaskier says, pulling a chair up to the table and tossing his coin bag—woefully empty—at Geralt, “I have slightly bad news.”

Geralt lets the bag land beside him, doesn’t even extend a hand to try to catch it—but it’s obvious he heard the painful, hollow clang of the few meagre coins they have left as they hit the wooden seat. They’re all alone at the back of the tavern; a good thing, since Jaskier isn’t in the habit of making it known just how poor he is. Usually, people avoid them like the plague because they’re intimidated by Geralt’s broody, amber eyes and ridiculous amount of muscle, but today it’s mostly because he stinks of Selkimore guts. Not that it bothers Jaskier, though. He’s gotten used to the stench of monsters. 

“Oh, you’re staying?” Geralt says, completely deadpan, not even the barest hint of an expression on his— 

He’s smirking, subtle enough that anyone  _ not _ familiar with a Witcher’s sense of humour wouldn’t notice, but Jaskier definitely catches it. That bastard. 

Jaskier huffs, fumbles for something to say. “What? No, what, I—I’m going to ignore that. What I  _ mean _ is, we’re almost out of money so I took some liberty with our budget and—”

“Get to the point,” Geralt grumbles, rolling his eyes.

“The point being,” Jaskier continues, “that while you were out, uh… working, I got us a room at this lovely establishment.”

And just as he stops talking, as if to prove just how lovely this hole-in-the-wall is, someone shatters a glass tankard on the wall, and a group of rowdy drunks, singing some off-key folk song, saunter in, carrying with them the overwhelming stink of horse stables. 

Geralt watches the men with a disinterested gaze, only letting out a deep, rumbling hum when they pass by the table. And then he suddenly snaps his eyes back to Jaskier and frowns. 

“ _ A _ room?” he asks.

It took him long enough to catch on. Jaskier nervously chuckles, rubs the back of his neck, squirms in his seat; the way Geralt’s looking at him—not quite annoyance, not quite hatred, mostly just very scary—is making him uneasy. 

“Uh,” he says, waving his hand in what he hopes is a casual, dismissive gesture, “well, you see, when I said I had to budget because we’re almost out of money, um—I could only afford to get us one room, since, y’know, we have to eat too and I’m not just going to let us  _ starve _ so we can have a bit of privacy and anyway, I feel like we’ve known each other long enough that it wouldn’t be an—”

Geralt hasn’t stopped frowning. Jaskier swallows, and suddenly, he’s very hot, and the room is suffocating, and the fabric of his shirt is ridiculously itchy. 

“—issue,” he finishes, the word fading on his tongue.

Geralt doesn’t reply; he doesn’t acknowledge what Jaskier said in any way. He just stares at him, unblinking, his expression completely unreadable. And Jaskier—as much as he wants to look away, as much as he knows the blush burning on his cheeks and spreading down his chest must be obvious—can’t seem to tear his gaze from Geralt’s eyes. He swallows around the lump in his throat, licks his lips, opens his mouth to— 

“Fine,” Geralt grunts.

Jaskier lets out a breath of relief. He doesn’t know what he would’ve done if it really had been an issue. Probably beg to sleep in the stable outside, if he’s being honest.

“Good. Great. Wonderful, that’s—” Geralt glares at him, jaw tense with annoyance and patience that’s been worn thin, and Jaskier immediately stops talking. He nods, clears his throat, and points vaguely in the direction of the bar. “I’ll, uh—why don’t I just go grab you a drink?”

Geralt hums, but he doesn’t refuse the offer. He never does; he puts up a fight, sometimes, and pretends that he’s fine without it, but he always eventually accepts whatever Jaskier gives him. It’s sweet, actually, now that he thinks about it. And right now, it’s a goddamn saviour.

“I’ll be right back,” Jaskier says, flashing him a smile. 

He heads over to the bar without waiting for Geralt to reply. God, was that a close call. He hadn’t even considered that it would pose a problem when he paid for the room—all that mattered was making sure they’d have enough money to afford a place to stay for the night, and some left over for dinner, and maybe breakfast tomorrow. And besides, Jaskier’s never had an issue sharing a room, much less a bed, with someone else. It just didn’t occur to him that Geralt wouldn’t be as comfortable with that. 

But—well, now that he thinks about it, this is a little different than all the other times he’s… slept with other people. Because he’s never been this nervous before, his heart’s never fluttered at the mere idea of being so close to someone, he’s never— 

Shit. So he might have a small crush on Geralt. Very small. Very, very small, totally ignorable. It’ll definitely pass. 

Right?

It needs to go away. Having a crush on people has never fared well for him, and more importantly, this is  _ Geralt. _ He’s the only person who’s been able to—begrudgingly—tolerate Jaskier’s company for more than a few hours at a time. He’s really his only true friend. And he can’t risk losing this friendship over something as dumb and insignificant as a crush. 

“What can I get you?”

Jaskier startles, immediately lunging to catch himself on the bar before he trips over his own feet. It takes him a second to register that the barmaid is talking to him. She’s watching him expectantly, but she also looks like she’s losing interest the longer it takes him to reply.

“I, uh, two, um…” Jaskier glances around, because suddenly, for some reason, he can’t seem to remember what it is he came here for, when he spots a hastily written sign posted behind the bar. “I’ll have two of those, please.”

The barmaid follows his gaze to the sign:  _ local specialty, half-off. _ She turns back to face him, an eyebrow raised, but doesn’t question his choice. It must be safe to drink, then. Hopefully. 

“For the Witcher,” Jaskier adds, giving her a patented charming smile, and nods in Geralt’s general direction. 

The barmaid lets out an unimpressed huff. Even though she doesn’t seem to like him very much, she serves him their “local specialty” ale free-of-charge, and Jaskier feels a little more relaxed when he gets back to the table. 

“That didn’t even cost me anything, you know,” he says triumphantly. “Your fame has its benefits.”

Geralt hums. He frowns down at his ale, swishes the mug around. His nose wrinkles when he lifts it for a drink, like he finds the smell unappealing or something. “They’re probably just afraid of—”

Instantly, as soon as he tips back the mug, Geralt spits the ale right back out. He coughs and wipes at his mouth, lips curled in disgust. “What the fuck is this?”

Jaskier grins sheepishly and shrugs. He looks at the contents of his own mug—dark, pink-tinged, impossible to guess—and pushes it away. Maybe it isn’t such a good idea to drink that.

“I don’t know,” he says. “It just said local specialty.”

Geralt glares at him and coughs again. “You didn’t ask?” he grumbles.

Jaskier shrinks under his gaze. “Uh… no?” 

Geralt rolls his eyes again and lets out a loud, irritated huff, but he doesn’t say anything else. He leaves the rest of the ale untouched, next to Jaskier’s own discarded mug. So much for that, then. 

“Dinner?” Jaskier asks. He drums his fingers on the table to fill the slightly awkward silence between them—he really can’t stand quiet. Especially when Geralt’s eyeing him with obvious, unadulterated annoyance. “If the ale’s that bad, then I wonder what the food’s like.”

Much to his surprise, instead of saying something along the lines of  _ “Shut up, bard”, _ Geralt just grunts. And if Jaskier strains really hard, he can hear a faint hint of fondness in his voice. Or maybe he’s imagining things. 

“Hmm,” Geralt says, “as long as it isn’t another local specialty.”

Jaskier laughs, unabashedly loud and bright, and when he looks back up, content and warm with the fuzzy feeling in his chest, he sees—oh, he hopes—Geralt returning his smile. And suddenly, in this little corner of the world carved out for the two of them, at this dimly-lit table at the back, the tavern doesn’t seem all that bad.

* * *

“Ridiculous,” Jaskier huffs, slumping back in his chair, a hand resting on his stomach. “I can’t believe I ate all that. It wasn’t even  _ good. _ ”

His plate, unlike Geralt’s, is empty—he practically inhaled his food the second it was brought over, even though it was disgusting and slimy and smelled like swamp water. To be fair, though, he was very hungry. He doesn’t think he’s eaten anything since they stopped by that fruit stand yesterday.

Geralt glances at Jaskier’s plate, then at his own, and frowns. “You didn’t have to eat it.”

Jaskier can only groan in response. He’s too full to talk. “No,” he sighs, “I had to. Otherwise I simply would’ve died.”

“Hmm,” Geralt says, and it’s clear he’s already disinterested. He nudges his plate towards Jaskier. “I don’t think that would’ve happened. But if you’re really hungry, you can have mine.”

Jaskier shakes his head. “Ugh, no thanks. I’m good. Just the  _ thought _ of eating more of this…” 

Geralt snorts. That rude bastard. He doesn’t even know how gross the tavern’s “stew” is.

“Why don’t you eat it?” Jaskier asks. He has to force himself to sit up, lest he just stay like that forever, slumped over in this uncomfortable wooden seat until he eventually falls asleep. “Aren’t you hungry at all?”

“Not for this,” Geralt grunts. “I have standards.”

Jaskier tries to laugh, but it hurts too much, so it comes out like more of a strained, breathy wheeze. “Really? I hadn’t noticed.”

Geralt only lets out a long, exasperated sigh. He takes one last look at his plate, and then stands up. His boots thud on the creaky floor as he walks over to where Jaskier’s still sitting, literally unable to move. He holds his hand out expectantly.

“Come on,” Geralt grumbles. “Let’s head up.”

“Mm,” Jaskier agrees. 

Geralt doesn’t wait for him to move; he grabs Jaskier’s wrist and pulls him out of his chair like it’s no effort at all, gripping his arm to keep him upright. His hand burns through Jaskier’s doublet. Jaskier’s breath catches in his throat, his heart skips a beat. He can’t seem to think of anything to say.

Geralt rolls his eyes for what must be the third time this evening. “I’m not asking, bard. I want to get an early start tomorrow.”

Instead of bothering to find some sort of reply, Jaskier just lets himself be dragged past the mess of crowded tables and towards the rickety staircase at the other side of the tavern. It’s narrow, uneven, and it looks like it’ll fall apart any second—so, as sad as it is, not the most unsafe thing Jaskier’s ever set foot on. 

Just as Geralt steps on it, the stair groaning under his weight, Jaskier wriggles out of his grip to face him. The railing presses into his back.

“Hey, um,” he says, “if this, uh… this whole sharing-a-room thing is a problem, I don’t mind sleeping somewhere else. Like, you can take the bed and I’ll sleep on the floor, or—or I could try to sneak into the stables, that’s not a—”

“Jaskier,” Geralt interrupts. He gently nudges past Jaskier and starts heading up the stairs. “It’s not a problem. I’m sure we’ll both fit on the bed.”

“I’m not so sure it’ll fit  _ you, _ ” Jaskier mumbles.

Geralt pauses and turns back to look at him over his shoulder, eyes narrowed. “What?”

Jaskier shakes his head, flashes him a smile, and waves his hand dismissively. “Ah, nothing.”

They make their way upstairs in silence, slow and careful, watching their footing to make sure they don’t accidentally fall through the staircase. They pass a couple being indecent by the wall; a man, probably a little tipsy, is nosing along a woman’s neck, one hand rucking her skirt up. She giggles, and fists her hands in the man’s collar to pull him in for a sloppy kiss. Geralt doesn’t even spare them a glance. Jaskier has to turn away when he feels his cheeks grow hot. 

Their room is at the far end of the top-floor hallway, secluded enough that, hopefully, they won’t have to hear much of what the other people might do. Jaskier hands Geralt the key—a big, ancient thing that barely fit in his pocket—and he opens the door to reveal sparse decor and a very, very small bed. 

Geralt glares at Jaskier before he can get a word out. “We’ll manage,” he says, his tone gruff and final. “I don’t want to hear you complaining about your back again.”

Jaskier grimaces at the bed, which he’s almost positive won’t even fit one normal-sized, not ridiculously muscular person, and huffs. “That was  _ one time! _ And, mind you, I was sleeping on actual rocks, so.”

Geralt grunts again—talkative as always, that one—and starts stripping his armour off, tossing it on the floor. Instinctively, without giving it much thought, Jaskier goes after him and picks up the discarded armour, and neatly tucks it in a pile at the back of the room. He doesn’t usually care for things being organized, but he knows how much Geralt appreciates it when he can actually find his stuff. Even if Geralt has never outright said it—he doesn’t have to. Jaskier knows.

“You should wash this,” Jaskier says, absentmindedly, as he trails after Geralt and collects the other things he discards: his boots, his weapons, the pin Jaskier had tucked in his hair earlier. “Before it gets too—” He looks up, then, and finds himself face-to-face with Geralt, barely inches apart, so close that if either of them turned their head, they’d kiss. He can see every shimmer of dark gold in Geralt’s amber eyes. Jaskier feels his cheeks grow hot, and he whispers, throat suddenly dry, “—hard.” 

For a long, unbearable moment, neither of them says anything. Jaskier swears he’s going to explode any second, if the erratic, embarrassingly loud way his heart is beating is anything to go by. And it doesn’t help that he knows Geralt can hear it too. Damn his stupid, heightened Witcher senses. 

Eventually, finally, Geralt lets out a thoughtful, conceding hum. “I don’t suppose you’d be free tomorrow?”

And Jaskier—he doesn’t even know why—doesn’t fight the urge to  _ touch _ ; he untucks Geralt’s shirt and rolls the coarse fabric between his fingers. It’s just as dirty as his armour, and the various gut-bits on it have mostly dried. It’ll take time to clean it properly, that’s for sure, and Jaskier’s definitely going to regret it as soon as he plunges his hands in whatever ridiculously cold river happens to be nearby, but it’s not like he has other plans. Besides, he’s been willing to do whatever Geralt’s asked of him since the moment they met. Laundry included. 

“I might be,” Jaskier teases, grinning. He lets go of Geralt’s shirt, and then, almost without meaning to, smooths his hand down his chest. “But for you, I guess I could clear up my schedule.”

Geralt looks down at his hand for a split second, but he doesn’t say anything about it. Instead, he just hums again and turns to continue tossing his things around. 

“At least bathe before you get in bed,” Jaskier says. The nauseating smell of monster insides hits him, and he wrinkles his nose. 

Geralt smirks at him. “I’ll think about it.”

* * *

By the time Geralt finishes his bath—or, rather, by the time he finally stops fighting against Jaskier washing his hair—the town has lulled to a peaceful, sleepy quiet, and the tavern has roared to life. Through the floor, and the thin walls, they can hear other patrons going about their business: arguing, laughing, getting uproariously drunk. Having very, very loud sex, in the case of the couple right above them. Every time their bed frame squeaks, Jaskier winces. 

“Gods,” he groans, “that’s going to keep me up.”

Geralt huffs out a laugh, and then he pats the empty sliver of space next to him on the bed. He smells warm, like the lavender Jaskier had added to his bathwater, and his hair is still a little wet, and his smile is soft. Vulnerable. He doesn’t usually let people see this side of him—Jaskier can count the times on one hand—but he’s always the most beautiful like this, with his guard down. Jaskier feels lucky that Geralt smiles like that around him. It makes him feel special, and wanted, and like he’s finally found his place in the world. 

“Are you getting in or not?” Geralt asks. 

Jaskier mumbles under his breath and crawls under the blanket, which Geralt has pushed back for him, settling in on the tiny, unclaimed bit of the bed. Just as he predicted, it’s much too small for both of them; whether he wants it or not, he has no choice but to be pressed right against Geralt’s side, if only to stop himself from falling off. He has to awkwardly tuck his arms against his chest to fit, and to avoid invading more of Geralt’s personal space.

“I hope  _ you’re _ comfortable, at least,” Jaskier grumbles. 

Geralt hums and shifts, ever so slightly, to make a little more room for him. It’s a nice gesture, but it doesn’t help very much. They’re still pressed together, so close that Jaskier can feel the deep, comforting rumble of Geralt’s breath. 

“This is fine, right?” Jaskier asks, tilting his head up to look at Geralt’s face. 

Geralt hums. His eyes are closed, one hand tucked behind his head and the other resting idly on his chest. “Don’t make a big deal out of it.”

Jaskier’s trying, he really is, but he can’t help it if he reads too much into this: the closeness, the warmth, the vulnerability. The comfort of falling asleep next to someone so strong, of knowing he’ll be safe. 

“Good night,” Jaskier whispers, instead of the other million thoughts running through his head. 

He burrows in closer, until his face is pressed right against Geralt’s side. It’s much comfier than the pillow, and much warmer. 

He’s drifting off, barely awake, when he hears Geralt reply, his voice softer than he ever could’ve imagined, “Good night, Jaskier.”

* * *

Jaskier wakes up slowly, lazily, like he has all the time in the world. He rolls over onto his side, stretches his arms out, yawns—and is suddenly, distinctly aware of the fact that the bed is empty. Groaning, he pushes himself upright and rubs the sleep from his eyes. The room is washed in bright, pale morning light, streaming in through the small, grimy window at the back. Jaskier yawns again and blinks, still not fully conscious, at the unoccupied space beside him. Geralt’s not there. Where is he? 

“Geralt?” Jaskier calls out. It comes out like more of a slurred mumble than anything coherent, but he’s much too tired to call again. 

Geralt appears then in the doorway, smiling like he finds this amusing. He’s dressed, and his hair is tied back, and he looks way too awake for whatever ungodly hour this is. He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, and says, “Oh, good, I was starting to think I’d have to carry you out.”

Jaskier tries to frown at him. Based on Geralt’s grin, it isn’t very successful. “That wouldn’t be good for your—” he pauses to yawn,  _ again _ , “—reputation.”

Geralt hums. “Come on, then. If you hurry up, we might still be able to grab breakfast on the way.”

Jaskier huffs. That’s so rude, trying to tempt him out of bed with the promise of food. He lets out a sigh and reluctantly gets up, purposely being as slow and petulant as possible. Geralt just watches him, still amused, as he grabs his doublet and tugs on his boots and tries to make his mussed hair look somewhat presentable. 

“I slept really well, you know,” Jaskier says, stifling another yawn. 

Geralt grunts. “I didn’t. You’re annoying even in your sleep.”

Now that’s interesting. Jaskier raises an eyebrow and grins; he’s suddenly feeling a lot more awake. “Oh, really?”

“You’re a cuddler,” Geralt says. “I could barely breathe.” 

Well, that does make sense. Jaskier is a very touchy, physically affectionate person, so of course he’d be the same when he’s sleeping. It’s weird, though, because no one else has ever brought that up. 

“Huh. Doesn’t seem like it’s been an issue when I’ve—” Jaskier pauses, swallows, ducks his head to avoid Geralt’s gaze and hide his blush, which he’s sure is now very obvious. “—um, with other people.” 

“Maybe that’s because no one else has ever stayed the night,” Geralt says, smirking.

Jaskier fumbles for something to say, but he can’t think of anything that would be a good enough reply. That was—okay, it was pretty funny, he can’t deny that. But still, he just woke up, and it’s way too early for Geralt’s ridiculous jokes. His humour always has a weird way of creeping up when Jaskier isn’t ready. Like now. Dammit. Stupid Geralt and his stupid, endearing teasing. Jaskier wishes he didn’t find it as cute as he does. 

He settles for spitting out a very late, “Hilarious.”

“Who says I was joking?” Geralt says, still smirking, that  _ bastard. _

Jaskier can only huff. He pouts down at his doublet as he buttons it up. “I thought you wanted to get an early start.” 

“Hmm,” Geralt says sagely. “I’ll wait for you downstairs. Don’t take too long, or I’ll leave without you.”

Jaskier shakes his head and smiles. “No,” he whispers, once Geralt’s left the room, “I know you won’t.”

**2.**

It’s early autumn, and it should be far too warm out for snow—and yet, here Jaskier is, freezing. He’s been trying to preserve any body heat he has left for the better part of an hour, but it’s no use; his clothes are too thin, and they don’t do anything to keep out the icy wind. His hands are so cold he can barely feel them anymore, and his teeth haven’t stopped chattering, and his boots are drenched from the snow. He should’ve asked if he could ride Roach too before they set out—though Geralt probably would’ve said no anyway—but he just didn’t think it’d be this bad. 

Gods, Jaskier can’t even remember what it’s like to be warm. He honestly thinks he might die out here.

“You’re shivering,” Geralt comments, out of nowhere, as they languidly follow a half-visible trail. 

Jaskier lets out a laugh, and his breath is as white as fog. “Astute o-observation,” he stammers. His jaw is so sore from the cold, it hurts to talk.

Geralt stops then, and Roach shifts to nuzzle her head against Jaskier’s chest. She’s not very warm, but it’s the thought that counts. Jaskier reaches a shaky hand out to stroke her mane, but he can’t even unfurl his fingers, and he’s afraid they’ll break if he does. 

“Why aren’t you wearing your coat?” Geralt asks. 

Jaskier shrugs. “I, uh…” he pauses, tries to get his teeth to stop chattering for a moment, just so he can get one full sentence out. “I s-sold it.” 

“Why?”

“To mend your armour,” Jaskier says. 

He’d sold his coat two days ago, before the snow and the cold, when he thought he wouldn’t need one for a good month at least. Geralt’s armour had been torn on his latest contract, and Jaskier couldn’t mend it on his own. So he somehow needed to get enough money to pay a professional to do it—and it isn’t cheap. 

Geralt’s gaze softens, then, and there’s the faintest hint of fondness in his voice when he says, “You didn’t need to do that.”

Jaskier just shrugs again. “W-well, y’know, I—you do all these i-important things and I just, um… I wanted to be helpful.”

He feels guilty, sometimes, about staying by Geralt’s side. Like he’s just a pain in the ass, even though he knows, theoretically, that if Geralt really found him that annoying, he would’ve told him to fuck off a long time ago. And yet—he always feels the need to prove that he’s worth having around. He secures them rooms and food when Geralt’s out hunting monsters, and he does his best to dampen Geralt’s infamy, and he does the laundry and budgets their money and cleans Geralt’s wounds, all in the hopes that Geralt won’t toss him aside. 

Geralt sighs, but he doesn’t seem annoyed. “You’re just as important,” he says. He sounds so sincere. 

“I don’t know,” Jaskier mumbles, blushing from the warmth of Geralt’s compliment. “I don’t s-save people or anything.”

Geralt looks at him, his expression unreadable, and hops off of Roach. And then he takes off his cloak—thick, soft wool—and, without even asking, drapes it over Jaskier’s shoulders. And if his hand lingers on Jaskier’s chest, neither of them mention it. 

“You need it more than I do,” Geralt says. Jaskier opens his mouth, but Geralt cuts him off before he can get anything out. “I’m not cold, Jask.”

Jask. 

Geralt’s never called him that before. It makes Jaskier feel all warm and cozy and soft, and for a moment, he forgets about the cold. He doesn’t even know what to do with that—if it means anything at all. Gods, he hopes it does. 

“Come on, then,” Geralt continues, and—when did he grab Jaskier’s hand? “We need to keep you warm.”

Before Jaskier can even fully register what’s going on, Geralt’s helping him climb on top of Roach, and then settling in behind him. His brain short-circuits when he feels Geralt’s strong arms circle his waist, holding him close. He’s pressed right against Geralt’s chest, and  _ oh, _ he’s so warm. 

“T-thanks,” Jaskier says, barely more than a whisper. 

Geralt huffs. “Don’t mention it.” 

Jaskier leans back, lets himself be enveloped in Geralt’s arms, and dozes off to the steady, comforting rhythm of his heartbeat. 

* * *

The sky is starting to grow dark by the time he stirs awake; the sun is setting behind the distant mountains, turning the few remaining leaves to gold. They must’ve been travelling for hours. Geralt must’ve avoided the less well-trodden paths in the forest. The thought that he cares enough to do that, to make sure Jaskier got the sleep he apparently needed, makes his heart flutter. 

“Where are we?” Jaskier mumbles, glancing around. He doesn’t recognize this place. But then again, all woods look the same to him. “What’s the time?”

Geralt grumbles behind him, and his voice reverberates through Jaskier’s bones. “It’s dusk. We won’t make it to the next town by nightfall. We’ll need to make camp here.”

They veer off the trail and head into a deeper, more secluded part of the forest, and eventually settle under a clump of mossy trees. There’s less snow here, but the ground is still frosty, and Jaskier prickles at the mere idea of having to spend a night here. He’s going to die of hypothermia. 

“Why didn’t we stop earlier?” he asks, as Geralt sets about unpacking his things.

Geralt pauses, looks up at him, frowns. His sleeves are pushed back, like the cold doesn’t bother him at all. “I didn’t want to wake you,” he says gruffly. And then, before Jaskier can reply, he adds, “Didn’t want to hear you complaining.”

Jaskier lets out a mock-offended huff, but he can’t help the wide grin spreading on his face. He knows—and he’s pretty sure that Geralt knows he knows—that the whole “didn’t want to hear you complaining” thing isn’t the real reason. He knows it’s just because Geralt is secretly a big softie, and he has a weird way of showing he cares, and that makes it all the more meaningful. 

“You think I complain a lot?” Jaskier asks, still smiling. “‘Cause it sure sounds like that’s what you’re saying.”

Geralt grunts and rolls his eyes. “Shut up, bard,” he grumbles. 

But he’s smiling too, even if he’d never admit it, and that makes Jaskier warmer than any fire ever could. 

* * *

They don’t have dinner—not that Jaskier minds, he’s much too cold to eat—but Geralt does get a fire going, and they warm themselves by it as the sun dips and night falls. Jaskier sits close, curled in against Geralt’s side, one arm stretched out to unfreeze his fingers and the other resting on Geralt’s thigh. He hasn’t said anything about that, so Jaskier figures it’s okay. Maybe Geralt’s just letting him stay like this because he’s cold, and it is the best way to warm up. The reason doesn’t matter.

And when the forest falls silent, and the sky above is littered with stars, Geralt spreads out his bedroll and takes off his boots. It is late, and they probably should go to sleep. The earlier they wake up tomorrow, the sooner they’ll get to civilization—and perhaps an inn with thick blankets and no drafty windows. 

Jaskier toes his own boots off, leaving them by the fire to dry, and goes to grab his own bedroll— 

“What are you doing?” Geralt asks, displeasure dripping from his voice.

Jaskier turns to face him; he looks soft like this, illuminated by the fire’s orange glow, even though he’s frowning. “Uh… going to sleep?”

“Not on your own,” Geralt says, shaking his head. He pats the space beside him, on his bedroll, which he’s dragged close enough to the fire that he can probably feel every bit of heat. “We’re sharing. Just for tonight, so you don’t die of cold.”

Jaskier smiles, ducks his head so that Geralt doesn’t catch his blush. “Who’s being melodramatic now?” 

Geralt just grunts, and holds up his prized fur blanket, like an invitation. “Just get in,” he grumbles. 

And Jaskier—well, who is he to deny such an offer? He takes off his doublet, only so that it doesn’t get wrinkled during the night, and crawls in beside Geralt, under the thick, soft fur, letting out a content sigh. Theoretically, he’d be just as warm if he put his own bedroll this close to the fire, and there’d be no reason to share, but he’s not about to bring that up and ruin this. After all, it’s not every day that Geralt willingly holds Jaskier in his arms. 

“Aren’t you, y’know,” Jaskier whispers, “hot?”

Geralt hums sagely, and only pulls Jaskier closer against him. And sure, Jaskier’s not shivering anymore, and he doubts he’ll get too hot, but Geralt’s a lot more sensitive to heat than he is. He’s going to be sweating buckets.

“Don’t worry about that,” Geralt replies, and  _ oh, _ how his voice rumbles against Jaskier’s back. He forgot how soothing that is.

Jaskier sighs. Involuntarily—damn his stupid body, always going against his reason—he shifts so that he’s fully snuggled up against Geralt, and there’s no space between them at all. They’re so close, Jaskier isn’t sure he’d be able to tell where one of them ends and the other begins. 

“Go to sleep, bard,” Geralt says. He doesn’t sound disgruntled or exasperated like usual, though; if anything, he sounds… fond. 

Jaskier presses his face into the bedroll and grins. “Good night,” he whispers, and he falls asleep with his cheeks sore from smiling.

**3.**

This is the last thing Jaskier needs right now. He’s exhausted from endless days on the road, and his feet hurt because he wore down the soles of his boots—which, as ridiculous as it is, he  _ just _ bought—and he’s been tiptoeing around Geralt’s obvious bad mood for the past few hours. He doesn’t really know why Geralt’s been so grumpy lately, even by his own standards, but it’s starting to get on his nerves. He can’t say anything without worrying about Geralt’s reaction.

And this—this is really the last fucking straw.

“I’m sorry?” Jaskier asks, blinking, not quite sure he’s heard right.

The innkeeper sighs, tired and drawn-out. “We only have one room left,” he drawls, sounding so bored it’s making Jaskier lose his patience, “so you and your companion will have to share a bed. It’s not a problem, is it?” 

Jaskier glances back at Geralt—brooding in the corner, half-obscured—and grimaces. They both had a long and exhausting day, and he’s sure it won’t bode well if he suggests trying to find a different inn for the night. Besides, this seems like a fairly decent place, all things considering; the stew he caught a whiff of on the way in actually smelled quite lovely.

“No, it’s not a problem,” Jaskier says. “Any room is a welcome reprieve.” 

He can’t help the anxiety that crawls up his throat, though, as he pays for the room and orders a modest dinner. This is one thing; breaking the news to Geralt is another thing entirely.  _ Especially _ when Geralt doesn’t seem like he’s going to take it very well. So by the time Jaskier makes his way back to their little table, trying not to spill the tankards of ale he’s balancing, he’s already run through fifteen alternate ways of saying,  _ “turns out we have to share a room.” _ None of them are good enough. He’s screwed. 

Geralt barely acknowledges Jaskier when he pushes one tankard towards him and slides onto the opposite seat. He’s sporting the same intimidating frown he’s had all afternoon, and when he turns to scowl at the ale he’s been offered, Jaskier’s stomach drops. 

“You seem nervous,” Geralt comments, in that low, gravelly, totally-not-hot voice of his. 

Jaskier squirms in his seat. He wants to point out that the only reason he’s nervous is because Geralt’s scary when he’s moody, but instead, he holds back his tongue and settles for saying, “That’s just my natural disposition.”

Geralt glares at him. Jaskier cowers under his gaze. So not even a light-hearted joke is going to ease the tension, then. This is definitely going to be a very fun night.

“Spit it out, bard,” Geralt grumbles, clearly growing more irritated with every passing second. 

Jaskier takes a deep breath. “Turns out they only had one room left so we have to share.” And then, quieter, he adds, “I hope that isn’t a problem.” 

He waits with bated breath for Geralt to do something,  _ anything, _ flip the table maybe or just yell at him but—nothing happens. If anything, he seems a little less grumpy now, a little more… relaxed, if Jaskier dares to say so. 

“Hmm,” Geralt says, eyes narrowed thoughtfully at his untouched ale. He glances up at Jaskier. “Why would that be a problem?”

Jaskier shrugs, waves his hand around vaguely. “Oh, no reason. Just. You’ve been—” he pauses, swallows around the lump in his throat, rubs the back of his neck. “You seem a little moodier than usual, that’s all.” 

Jaskier expects him to do something now, but again, he just… sits there. He doesn’t burst into a fit of anger or anything, doesn’t even make any indication that he’s still as grumpy as before. He just leans back against the wall and lets out another  _ hmm. _

“So,” Jaskier says. It comes out a little louder than he intended, but the silence was starting to make him agitated, and he had to do something about it. “Ghouls, is it?” 

* * *

Geralt relaxes more and more over the course of the evening, and Jaskier doesn’t question it. He’s worried that he’ll ruin everything if he brings it up; so instead, he fills the space between them with stories and gossip he’s overheard around the inn, and he smiles at Geralt the whole time he performs. 

By the time they head up to their room, pressed together to fit in the narrow stairwell, Jaskier’s almost completely forgotten about the fact that Geralt’s been especially moody for the past week—until a few hours ago, that is. Until he said they’d have to share a room, and then something changed.

“Geralt,” Jaskier blurts, before he can even really think about it, “can I ask you something?” 

Geralt turns to look at him, his hand hovering by the door to their room, and nods.

Jaskier leans against the doorframe, crosses his arms, clears his throat. “I just—I was just wondering, um. Why did—what changed? I mean, you were in a bad mood earlier, and… now you’re not.”

He expects Geralt to get mad at him this time, at the very least. He’s never been particularly nice when Jaskier points out his bad moods—or lack thereof. But instead, he just lets out an amused huff and turns to look at him, the barest hint of a grin on his lips. This whole not-getting-mad thing has been suspiciously common today. 

“Who says I’m not still in a bad mood?” Geralt asks, but his tone is much too light to be serious. 

Jaskier doesn’t even know what to do with this. He’s used to dealing with grumpy Geralt, not teasing Geralt. 

Geralt just sighs as he takes off his leather jerkin and tosses it on the floor. It lands by the foot of the bed; Jaskier almost reaches to grab it and fold it, properly set it aside so it won’t get dirty, but decides to stay put where he is by the door. 

“Jask,” Geralt says, “just drop it and go the fuck to sleep.”

Jaskier pouts. “I’m not even tired,” he counters, instead of the million other things on his mind—like, for instance, why Geralt wants to change the subject so badly. “You can’t just expect me to go to sleep, it’s way too early. It’s not even midnight.”

Geralt raises an eyebrow and glances out the small, open window by the bed. “It’s past midnight.” 

“Is it?” 

Jaskier can never tell. Everything looks the same to him once the sun sets; he still hasn’t figured out how Geralt can tell what time it is. 

“I don’t really care if you actually sleep,” Geralt says, sighing, as if they’ve had this conversation a thousand times. Which, honestly, they might’ve. “I do, however, have to be up before dawn. So either you get into bed now and shut up, or you can sleep in the stables. Your choice.” He grins. “I’m sure Roach would appreciate the company.”

“Ha, ha,” Jaskier drawls. “Hilarious.” 

He’s not any more tired than he was a few seconds ago, and he knows that Geralt’s threat is empty, but he changes out of his clothes and crawls into bed anyway. It’s soft—and oh, how nice it is to lie down—and the blanket is warm, and his eyes flutter shut against his will as his head hits the pillow. He’s not sleepy, dammit… but it is suddenly very, very hard to fight against the desire to sleep. 

“Mm,” Geralt hums, a little smug. “Still not tired?” 

Jaskier mumbles, his words swallowed by the pillow, barely coherent, “No, ‘m not  _ tired. _ It’s jus’ comfortable.”

He feels the bed dip when Geralt slides in beside him and tugs the blanket away—he’s cold for a split second, until Geralt shifts and presses closer against him, solid and warm. The bed’s big enough for them both, and there’s no need to squeeze together, but it’s not like Jaskier’s complaining. He seeks out Geralt’s touch whenever he can—grabs his hand to pull him through busy markets, slings an arm over his shoulders when they get celebratory drinks after a successful hunt, tucks flowers in his hair when he’s allowed to braid it—so he’s certainly not going to question it. 

Neither of them says anything for a long time. They just lie there, so close that Jaskier’s sure Geralt can feel his heartbeat, in comfortable silence. The only things he can hear are their breaths, and muffled conversations from the tavern below. 

And then, just as Jaskier feels himself start to slowly drift off, Geralt shifts and wraps an arm around his waist, pulls him close, nuzzles his nose against Jaskier’s shoulder.

“Do you want to know why I’m in a better mood now?” Geralt asks, low, husky. 

Jaskier hums, but he’s much too tired now to speak. He falls asleep as Geralt whispers against his skin, and he dreams of warm, strong hands and gentle kisses.

**4.**

“It’s raining,” Jaskier says, absentmindedly, almost like an afterthought. 

He doesn’t hate rain, nor does he particularly like it, and he hadn’t even noticed it until now. Forests are usually dewy in spring; the squelching of his boots on the muddy path and the drops on his doublet aren’t surprising. But the rain must’ve picked up—because when Jaskier glances up to spot  _ something _ that might tell him how close they are to Temeria, he instead finds that Geralt’s hair is messy and wet, and rivulets of rain run down his armour in jagged lines. 

“Your braid,” Jaskier continues. He pauses, reaches a hand out to card through Geralt’s hair. The tie must’ve fallen out. He had braided it last night, while Geralt was roasting dinner, and Geralt hadn’t taken it out. Usually he does, and his hair is always gloriously wavy afterwards, but not yesterday. 

Geralt huffs, amused. “Yes, you’re very observant.”

Jaskier ignores that and asks, “Since when has it been raining?”

“All day,” Geralt replies. He glances down at Jaskier from where he’s perched on Roach. “You really haven’t noticed?”

Jaskier shrugs. “No. Why—is that a bad thing?”

“Hmm,” Geralt says helpfully. He doesn’t offer any other comment. 

“Oh, well,” Jaskier says, waving his hand dismissively. “It’s just rain. We’ll be fine.”

That was, as it turns out, a very premature prediction. Because not even ten minutes later, the light, barely-there rain has grown into a full-blown downpour. It pours like buckets, so much that Jaskier can barely see through it. He’s shivering, soaked to the bone; his clothes are plastered to his skin, his boots are soggy. He’s pretty sure his lute is going to be ruined, if it isn’t already.

And Geralt—he just keeps going on, unblinking, unfazed. Like the cold and the rain don’t bother him at all.

“Are you going to use that?” Jaskier asks. He has to raise his voice to be heard over the torrential downpour. 

Geralt follows his gaze to his cloak, rolled up in one of the packs Roach is carrying. He shakes his head. “Go ahead.”

Jaskier scrambles to pull it out and wrap his lute in it. It’s not waterproof or anything, but it  _ is _ thick, and it’s the best he can do. For now, it’ll be good enough to protect his most precious possession. And anyway, it’s not like Geralt minds if it gets wet. Otherwise he wouldn’t have let Jaskier take it out. 

“Doesn’t the rain bother you?” Jaskier asks, holding a hand up to shield his eyes. 

Geralt grunts. “No. Why? Does it bother you?”

“Uh, clearly, yes.” Jaskier wishes he had a coat. Or, like, a piece of metal to hold over his head. At this point, he’d take anything to get out of the rain. 

“Hmm,” Geralt says. Sometimes, he’s a bastard.

“Can’t we stop for a bit? Just until it passes?”

Geralt stops abruptly, and Jaskier nearly trips over his own feet. Well, the path is slippery now, it’s not entirely his fault. 

“No, we’re not far,” Geralt says. “And it won’t pass. Now come on, the faster you walk, the sooner we can find an inn.”

Jaskier grumbles, but it’s not like he really has a choice. What’s he going to do, camp by himself? He wouldn’t last an hour alone. Besides, he wouldn’t want to deny Geralt the pleasure of his company. He’s not mean. 

Reluctantly, Jaskier picks up his pace to keep up with Roach. He frowns the whole time, petulantly hugging his lute to his chest, and doesn’t even complain about the rain. He’s trying to make a  _ point. _

That lasts until the hail starts. It’s light, at first, so small that Jaskier doesn’t notice it isn’t rain anymore—and then it hits all at once, massive and painful. There’s so much of it that the ground looks like it just snowed. 

“Geralt!” Jaskier yelps, as he’s being pelted with hail. “Geralt, can we—ow, shit, can we  _ please _ find some cover? I’m  _ dying! _ ”

Geralt still seems unfazed, but at least he’s more lenient now than before. “Fine,” he grumbles, not bothering to hide his displeasure. “But only until the hail stops.”

Jaskier nods hurriedly. Gods, he’d do anything to get out of this storm. Geralt leads them off the path and deeper into the forest, and Jaskier follows without even asking where, exactly, they’re going. Geralt knows his way around most places, and he probably has some sort of place in mind. Not that it matters, though—anywhere is good, as long as it’s warm and sheltered. 

Eventually, they reach a small cluster of thick pine trees, their branches heavy with hail. There’s a burrow at the roots of one of them; it’s a little small, but it’s definitely big enough to fit both of them. Someone—or some _ thing _ —must’ve been here before. Jaskier can’t think of any animal that big. He’s not questioning it, though. He’s just grateful Geralt found it. 

“Thank the gods,” Jaskier says, letting out a breath of relief. He scrambles into the burrow and ducks his head under the roof, shifts so that his entire body is covered. Oh, how nice it is to not be in the storm. 

After making sure Roach is fine under the pine trees, Geralt crawls in beside him. And—well. Turns out they have to squeeze to fit. 

“Hmm,” Geralt says. 

He doesn’t do anything about how close they are, though, doesn’t even comment about the fact that Jaskier’s pressed right against his side. It’s nothing new, of course, but here, in this burrow, their closeness is somehow more… intimate. It feels more real than it ever has, when they’ve shared a space before. 

“Don’t worry,” Jaskier says, trying to be cheerful. “I’m sure it won’t be long now.”

Geralt only narrows his eyes, but doesn’t reply. Maybe he knows something that Jaskier doesn’t. It’s not a very comforting thought. 

And, not surprising at all, his wishful thinking turns out to be just that: wishful. Mere seconds after they get in the burrow, there’s a low, distant rumbling. Jaskier tenses. He knows what it is. His stomach drops. No, gods, not this. Hail, he can deal with—but not this. 

“Did you hear that?” he whispers. His voice is shaking more than he’d like, but he can’t control it.

Geralt only grunts. Of course he heard it, what a ridiculous question—enhanced Witcher hearing and all that. 

Barely a minute later—once Jaskier finally regains his composure, just his luck—the dark sky flashes with lightning, blinding and veiny, and rumbles with thunder so loud, the ground practically shakes. And Jaskier  _ yelps _ . 

“Holy shit!” he shrieks, startled, holding a hand to his chest. “Sweet Melitele.”

Geralt glances at him out of the corner of his eye. He didn’t even flinch, the bastard. “It’s just a storm.”

Jaskier turns to look at him; his face is sharply outlined against the pale light from outside the burrow. His pupils are dilated, surrounded by only a slim ring of gold. 

“That’s the problem,” Jaskier says.

For a moment, Geralt doesn’t say anything. His lips quirk up the slightest bit—but it’s not teasing, or smug, or amused. It’s that same weirdly fond smile that Jaskier still hasn’t been able to figure out. 

“You’re afraid of the storm?” Geralt asks. There’s nothing in his voice that betrays the fact that he probably finds this very funny. Jaskier’s grateful for that, at least. He doesn’t like being made fun of. 

The wind howls, and when Jaskier turns to peek at the situation outside, he catches a glimpse of swaying tree branches and furiously black clouds. The air smells like rain. The only good thing is that it’s not hailing anymore. But, then again… it’s not like the thunder and lightning is a better alternative. 

Jaskier opens his mouth to reply, hesitant, and nods. “Yes,” he admits. “But only if I’m not indoors. I—I don’t mind them if I’m—” 

He’s interrupted by another peal of thunder, reverberating through his bones and probably splitting the sky itself open. And instinctively, without even really registering it, he jumps, reaches for anything that might be the slightest bit comforting— 

It takes him an embarrassingly long time to realize he’s ended up in Geralt’s lap, legs around his waist, hands clasped tight behind his neck. He nuzzles against his chest, buries his face in his shirt, and lets out a small whimper.

Geralt clears his throat. Jaskier startles. He immediately loosens his grip, intending to just awkwardly crawl back to his previous spot, but then he loses his balance and falls back and—and Geralt catches him, his absolutely  _ massive _ hand burning through his shirt.

“S-sorry,” Jaskier stammers. He feels his cheeks burn. 

Geralt shakes his head. “Don’t be.” 

“Is this—” Jaskier takes a deep breath. Perhaps it’s because Geralt’s already seen him at his worst, perhaps it’s the rain getting to his head—he decides he’s going to be bold. What does he have to lose? “Is this… okay?” 

He hopes Geralt won’t tell him to get off, because he really, really doesn’t want to. There’s just something comforting about being held by him, something  _ grounding. _

“You can stay,” Geralt says. His voice is softer than Jaskier ever thought it could be. “If it helps.”

Geralt’s arms tighten around his waist, holding him closer, and Jaskier’s breath hitches in his throat. “It helps,” he whispers. “This must look pathetic, though. I mean, me being scared of—”

Geralt interrupts him with a barely-concealed growl. “It’s not pathetic, Jaskier. Fear is perfectly normal. Just because I—” he tenses, then, grinds his jaw. There’s something broken in his voice. “The point is, I’m not going to judge you for being afraid.”

“Oh,” Jaskier says, barely more than a breath. He doesn’t know what to do with this. He never knows what to do, what to say, when someone shows him genuine kindness. It makes his heart flutter every damn time. 

Geralt glances out past his shoulder, and when he looks back at him, his expression is fond. “Why don’t you rest for a bit? The storm’s dying down.”

“Mm.” Jaskier sighs. “I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep with the thunder.”

“I’ll hold you,” Geralt says, entirely serious. 

Jaskier sucks in a sharp breath. He’s suddenly very, distinctively aware of his hand, which has slid down and is now resting on Geralt’s chest, entirely against his will. He doesn’t want to take it off. Geralt doesn’t say anything about it. 

“Okay,” Jaskier breathes. His tongue darts out to wet his lips; Geralt watches him, intense, unblinking, unreadable. “I’ll try.”

And then, tentatively, afraid to cross a line, he shifts and leans his head on Geralt’s shoulder, presses his face into the nape of his neck and takes a deep breath. Geralt smells like rain, and the woods, and Roach, and something musky and warm and comforting—something distinctly  _ him. _

Jaskier’s eyes flutter shut, and he drifts off to the steady rhythm of Geralt’s heartbeat, and his hands rubbing soothing circles on his back.

* * *

When Jaskier wakes up—languidly, taking his time, stretching his limbs out—the first thing he’s aware of is the solid warmth he’s leaning against. The second thing he’s aware of is the pleasant quiet; it must’ve stopped raining, then, while he was asleep. He yawns, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, and— 

Looks right up at Geralt, who’s watching him with a barely-there, but undeniably fond, smile. 

“Good morning,” Geralt says. 

“Mm,” Jaskier mumbles, yawns again. And then he realizes. “Morning? How long was I asleep for?”

Geralt hums. His hand is still on Jaskier’s back, like he hasn’t moved it at all. Jaskier distantly notes that he’s probably uncomfortable in this position. His legs are probably numb, and his back must be sore, if Jaskier really slept on him all night, and—shit, he looks like he hasn’t slept at all. 

“Did you sleep?” Jaskier asks. He can’t help the guilt that creeps into his voice—he feels bad, if he’s the reason Geralt looks so terrible. 

Geralt shakes his head. “No,” he says, “but that doesn’t matter. What matters is that  _ you _ slept.”

Oh, sweet Melitele, how does he always manage to say the most tender things? How is it that the Continent’s grumpiest Witcher makes his heart skip a beat and his stomach flutter with butterflies, even when all he does is smile? It’s unfair. 

Jaskier shifts in Geralt’s lap without getting off, still too warm and sleepy and comfortable to register that he’s probably overstaying his welcome, and squints at the now-peaceful forest. Bright, early-morning sunlight filters through the canopy of trees; the grass is dewy, but otherwise, there’s no sign of the torrential flood from yesterday. If he strains, he can even hear birds singing.

“I slept through the storm?” Jaskier asks.

Geralt nods. “Mm,” he hums. “Through the worst of it. You didn’t stir at all.”

Instinctively, Jaskier presses his face against Geralt’s chest to suppress his grin. He’s never been able to sleep through storms—and even if he could, miraculously, fall asleep, the thunder always woke him up. He’s positive that the only reason he could last night was because of Geralt. Because Geralt held him close, and never let him go, and stayed in an uncomfortable position all night just so he could rest. 

“Thank you,” Jaskier says, soft, barely audible. His words get swallowed in Geralt’s shirt, but he knows he can hear him anyway. 

Geralt’s voice is gentle and quiet when he replies, “Any time.”

**5.**

Jaskier startles awake, eyes wide, and screams. He scrambles back, kicking off his blanket, tries to get up—but the thing looming over him, ugly and way too fucking close, grabs him by the ankle and yanks him back down. He yelps, tries to kick it away, but— 

The thing lets out a horrifying, ear-splitting screech as it gets impaled, and Jaskier only manages to catch a glimpse of a gleaming sword, the tip dripping dark blood, before he throws his hands up to shield his face. And—wait a second. That’s a  _ familiar  _ sword. 

Carefully, Jaskier lowers his hands. The thing drops dead beside him, its blood splattering over his clothes and his bedroll. It stinks like swamp water. 

“Sorry.”

Jaskier glances up at Geralt, who’s standing at the foot of his bedroll, holding his sword out. He’s not wearing any armour, and his shirt looks like it’s been haphazardly thrown on. 

“I—” Jaskier pauses. Looks at the thing—the drowner, he registers—then back up at Geralt, who’s grimacing, like he feels guilty about this or something. Or maybe the smell of the drowner corpse is even worse for him. “It’s…okay?”

Geralt drops his sword and sighs. “I didn’t mean to, uh. Wake you up like this. I was just hunting breakfast and—” He gestures at the drowner. “It came from the lake. I told you it was a bad idea to camp so close to the water.”

Jaskier shrugs, waves his hand dismissively. “Well,  _ someone _ really needed to bathe, and it wasn’t me, so—wait a second. You were  _ hunting _ breakfast?”

Geralt glares at him, grinds his jaw, and lets out a very long, very exasperated huff. “That’s what bothers you? That I was hunting breakfast? Not the fact that a drowner was about to kill you?”

“Oh, I’m used to monsters, dear,” Jaskier says. It sounds a lot sadder when he says it out loud. “But I refuse to eat rabbit first thing in the morning.”

“You’re unbelievable,” Geralt grumbles.

Jaskier just grins. “Vegetables, Geralt! I think I saw a berry bush yesterday. Why don’t I go get some, eh? It’ll do you good.”

Geralt grunts, but he doesn’t object. Instead, he scowls down at the drowner corpse and says, “I guess I should clean this up.” 

“That’s the spirit!” Jaskier says. He stands up, steps around the body, and pats Geralt’s shoulder. His shirt is covered in blood—which is such a shame, because he just bought it a week ago, and he’d been saving his coin up for new clothes for  _ months. _ “I won’t be long. And don’t even think about hunting anything while I’m gone.”

Geralt only grunts. Jaskier considers that a win.

* * *

When he gets back from picking berries—which, considering they don’t have a basket, he has to carry in a folded-up shirt—Jaskier finds Geralt sitting on the riverbank, hunched over his bedroll, furiously trying to wash out the stains. He’s frowning adorably.

“How’s it coming along?” Jaskier asks, dumping his shirt full of berries by their packs.

Geralt lets out a frustrated sigh. “It’s not.”

Jaskier looks over his shoulder at the bedroll; it’s completely soaked, but the pool of drowner blood on it is still very visible. It’s probably a lost cause, to be honest—and even if it isn’t, the mere idea of having to sleep where a literal monster was killed isn’t very appealing. That’s a hard pass. But on the other hand… he kind of just wants to relish in the moment, to enjoy Geralt being nice and doing this for him.

“Eh,” Jaskier says, shrugging indifferently. “We can salvage it.”

Geralt stares at him, eyes narrowed, lips curled in disgust. “Don’t be fucking gross. I’m getting you a new one.”

“Wha—?” Jaskier blinks. He doesn’t even know what to say. “Why...?”

“Because I don’t have the patience to sit here and scrub the stain out, and then wait for it to dry,” Geralt says, like they’ve already had this conversation before. “We can’t waste time. It’s easier to just buy a new one anyway.” 

Jaskier would bring up the fact that Geralt doesn’t seem to mind it when his armour—or any of  _ his _ stuff, really—is covered in various monster bodily fluids, but he doesn’t want to start an argument. 

“So what about my shirt, then?” he asks, gesturing at the dried blood on it. “Am I just supposed to throw it away too? All my other shirts are dirty and smelly. I can’t wear them.”

Geralt only huffs.

* * *

“You know,” Jaskier says, “I really don’t think black’s my colour.”

After Geralt convinced him to toss out his brand-new, ridiculously comfortable shirt, and after an embarrassingly long argument about why he can’t just show up to the next town in clothes that are weeks overdue for laundry, Jaskier was only left with one option. Which is how he ended up wearing one of Geralt’s shirts. It’s big on him, and he’s pretty sure it looks stupid on him, and most of all, he  _ hates _ how smug Geralt is about the whole thing. 

“No colour is your colour,” Geralt says, lips quirked up in a smirk. 

Jaskier pouts. He looks ridiculous. He  _ feels _ ridiculous. And normally, he wouldn’t let Geralt get away with something like that, he’d whip out a witty retort in less than a second, but he’s so focused on this very unfortunate turn of events that he barely even pays attention to what Geralt says. Which—now that he thinks about it, is kind of sad on its own. The only thing that could make this worse is if someone sees him. 

At least Geralt had the decency to take the less-travelled path through the woods, not the highway. 

“How much longer?” Jaskier whines. 

Geralt doesn’t bother looking down at him when he replies, “At least a day.” 

And then it hits him—that smug, stupid bastard. Jaskier stops, hands on his hips, and tries to level Geralt with a frown. It doesn’t do anything, of course; Geralt just rolls his eyes and huffs. 

“At least a  _ day? _ ” Jaskier repeats. He’s not sure he heard right. It can’t be that far away, not when… “You said this was a shortcut.” 

Geralt shakes his head. “I never said shortcut. I said it was a different path. You’d think, bard, that you’d know some geography after all the time you’ve spent on the road.”

“I—I have—I know  _ geography _ —” Jaskier flounders, and for once in his life, he’s completely at a loss for words. “I’ll have you know, I—” he can’t think with the way Geralt’s smirking at him. Gods, he just wants to rip that stupid grin off his face. “So we won’t even reach the town today?”

“No.”

Oh, this has to be payback for something he did. Geralt isn’t cruel. Jaskier must’ve been especially annoying lately to deserve this. “So there’s no real reason I have to look ridiculous?”

“It’s purely for my own amusement,” Geralt says. 

Never mind what Jaskier thought before: turns out Geralt  _ is _ cruel.

Jaskier huffs. “Oh, so—so what, you like seeing me in your clothes? Do you enjoy how foolish—”

And—oh. He can’t remember what it is he wanted to say. Because now, the only thing he can focus on is the way Geralt ducks his head, the slightest hint of a blush on his cheeks. Which is weird, he notes distantly, because Witchers don’t blush. Jaskier’s certainly never seen it before. So why…? 

Oh. Maybe Geralt does like seeing Jaskier in his clothes. That’s… something he probably needs to think about more. 

Jaskier swallows. “Right. Uh. Well I—uh, I—”

“Don’t strain yourself,” Geralt grumbles. 

Jaskier decides to ignore that. “I suppose this means we’re sharing tonight?” he asks instead. “Seeing as you burned my bed, and all.”

Geralt sighs. “An unfortunate consequence,” he says, but he doesn’t sound displeased.

“Oh, it’s only one night, Geralt,” Jaskier says. “I promise, I’ll be out of your hair the second we reach town. I’ll even go to the market when you’re out on a contract and get myself a bedroll. You won’t have to lift a finger.”

“Hmm,” Geralt says. And if he sounds a little disappointed, neither of them mention it.

* * *

They camp in a quiet meadow at the edge of the forest, full of wildflowers and ferns. There’s a family of deer resting by the nearby trees, and a creek, and the pale blue outline of mountains in the distance. It’s so picturesque—it almost feels wrong that their first time camping here is under such… circumstances. It’d be a lot nicer, Jaskier thinks, if they only had the one bedroll anyway and they’d cuddle up close by the fire and Geralt would kiss him as the sun— 

Oh, he’s getting ahead of himself. There’s no way that’ll ever happen. It’d be foolish to think… to even  _ dream _ —no, he can’t allow himself that fantasy. He can’t let it grow and grow until it turns into— 

“Jaskier?”

Jaskier startles, nearly tripping over the absolutely zero rocks on the ground. Not the most embarrassing thing Geralt’s seen him do, then. “Huh? Did you say something?”

Geralt rolls his eyes. “Do you mind if we have rabbit tonight? You were so against it this morning.”

“Oh,” Jaskier says. “Well, that’s because it was morning, obviously.”

Geralt snorts. “Because the time of day makes such a difference. I’m going to hunt dinner. You can—”

“Yes, yes, darling,” Jaskier interrupts, waving his hand dismissively. “I’ll set up, don’t you worry.” 

Geralt leaves without another word, but he is smiling, and that means more to Jaskier than anything he could possibly say.

While he’s out hunting, Jaskier sets up camp. He piles Roach’s saddlebags and puts out Geralt’s bedroll— _ their _ bedroll, for the night—under a thick oak tree, and then waits for Geralt to get back. He would start a fire, but he still hasn’t really learned how to do that properly, and it’s much easier if Geralt just uses Igni anyway. 

He’s idly plucking his lute, resting against the oak, humming the melody of a song whose lyrics he can’t quite remember, when Geralt shows up with two rabbits and— 

“Geralt,” Jaskier says, pleasantly surprised, “you didn’t have to!”

Geralt just grunts as he drops the rabbits, and the handful of mushrooms he’s managed to find, on the bedroll. “You’re always complaining about the lack of vegetables,” he grumbles. “I figured this would shut you up for a month.”

Jaskier sets his lute down and smiles sweetly. “A week, dear, it’s like you don’t know me at all.” He catches Geralt’s gaze. “Thank you, though. I appreciate it.”

“Mm,” Geralt says. He doesn’t need to say more—Jaskier knows what he means.

* * *

The strange tension that’s been between them all day slowly dissipates over dinner, as Jaskier scoots closer and closer to Geralt while they eat. For some reason, it’d feel too weird if he joined him on the bedroll—even though they’re both going to be sleeping on it, together, anyway—so Jaskier just sits right beside it, leaning against the oak. Geralt doesn’t say anything about it. 

And that’s the strangest part, Jaskier thinks; this isn’t the first time they’ve had to share a bed, far from it, and there’s no reason for either of them to be so… well, awkward. It’s just—tonight feels different. Jaskier doesn’t really know why. It just  _ is. _

“You’re being uncharacteristically quiet,” Geralt grumbles, barely audible. It’s the first thing he’s said since he started cooking dinner.

Jaskier shrugs, pointedly focuses on the grass stains on his trousers instead of meeting Geralt’s gaze. “Ah, well,” he says vaguely, “you know. I don’t have much to say.”

Geralt snorts. “That’s a first.” 

He falls into silence, frowning. He looks down for a brief moment—his eyes glow a warm gold from the fire’s reflection. When he turns his head to face Jaskier again, something flashes in his expression, but it’s gone before Jaskier can figure out what it is. 

“Are you okay?” Geralt asks eventually. The words hang heavy in the air between them.

Jaskier blinks once, twice, a third time for good measure. He doesn’t know what to do with this; in all the years they’ve known each other, Geralt’s never asked him if he’s okay. He’s checked, of course, and he’s made it clear he cares in his own way—he’s frowned and fretted over Jaskier’s injuries, defended him when the locals at a tavern got particularly mean, let him sleep in just a little longer if he was especially tired. And Jaskier always appreciates everything Geralt does for him, never asks for more. 

This—the simplest of questions—feels intimate in ways he doesn’t have the words to explain. The way Geralt said it, so soft and vulnerable, almost made it seem like a… confession. Like a whisper meant for the dark, the kind of thing no one else is ever supposed to hear. 

Jaskier’s heart pounds, threatening to leap right out of his chest. Eventually, after a pause that’s too long to be normal, he says, “Yes. Yeah. I’m—I’m fine. Thanks. Uh—for asking.”

Geralt hums, dips his head in the slightest of nods. He doesn’t look okay, though, but Jaskier knows from experience that asking about it won’t get him anywhere. He’s tried enough times, and he’s lucky if he gets a grunt in acknowledgement. 

“Geralt?” Jaskier asks. He stretches his legs out and shifts to nestle more comfortably against the tree. 

Geralt looks up at him, his eyes soft and patient, but doesn’t say anything.

“Do you—” Jaskier pauses. He doesn’t even know what, exactly, he wants to say. Well—that’s not true. It’s on the tip of his tongue, and it’s been at the forefront of his mind for weeks, but he’s too scared to say it out loud. Because once he does that, once he gives it a name… there’s no taking it back. “Did you hear about the devil terrorizing Toussaint?” 

Geralt snorts and replies, “Devils don’t exist.”

But he’s still smiling, and he still moves over to make room on the bedroll beside him, and he still listens to Jaskier tell him a made-up story he’s already heard before.

* * *

“Stop hogging the blanket,” Geralt grumbles. 

Jaskier huffs, scrambling unsuccessfully to push Geralt aside, just a little, and make more room for himself. The only reason he’s resorted to hogging the blanket is because  _ someone _ is taking up the entire fucking bedroll, and has cemented himself to the ground like a boulder. Half of Jaskier’s body isn’t even on the bedroll anymore, and since he still has some standards, he’s refusing to touch the dirty, itchy grass. Screw this idyllic meadow—it’s not as nice when night falls. 

“What’re you gonna do about it?” Jaskier snickers.

His  _ one _ victory is the blanket; he’s not going to give it up so easily. He pulls it tighter around himself, grins at the frustrated grunt that Geralt lets out, and— 

Before he can do anything else, Geralt grabs him by his waist and tugs him closer, bringing the blanket with him. Jaskier yelps, surprised—he hadn’t expected Geralt to actually touch him—and rolls over, opens his mouth to say something snarky—

And. Oh. They’re much closer than he thought. He’s barely an inch away from Geralt’s face; he can see every fleck of dark amber in his eyes, every pale scar on his skin, every strand of his loose hair, so white it’s practically glowing. Jaskier swallows, his mouth suddenly dry. 

“Didn’t anyone tell you,” Geralt drawls, lips quirked up in a grin, “that sharing is caring?” 

Jaskier fumbles for something to say, but he can’t focus, can’t think of anything—not when he’s pressed right against Geralt’s bare chest, and the only barrier between them is his own flimsy shirt. And it isn’t even  _ his _ shirt, anyway; it’s Geralt’s. And that… that doesn’t make this any easier. 

“Well,” Jaskier huffs, trying for totally indifferent but probably failing, “I wouldn’t have had to hog the blanket if you made room for me on the bedroll.” 

“I’m making room for you now, aren’t I?” Geralt says, still grinning. 

Jaskier feels his cheeks heat up—being the subject of Geralt’s gaze for more than two seconds does that to him—so he shifts onto his side, instead choosing to stare out at the dark. Unlike Geralt, he can’t actually see, and he can barely even make out the outline of his lute case, safely deposited right by his pillow, but it’s the thought that counts. It’s better than having Geralt see into the depths of his soul, at least. 

It dawns on him, then, as he’s trying to focus on things he can’t see anyway, that Geralt never really needed the blanket in the first place. He doesn’t get cold—and even if he does, he never makes it clear. And besides, every other time they’ve had to share a bed, Geralt’s never said anything about Jaskier stealing the blanket. 

Not to mention, there’s the fact that Geralt hasn’t taken his hand off Jaskier’s waist. He’s normally very perceptive, always attuned to where his hands are, where their bodies touch, even if they’re just squeezing together on the same bench at a tavern. He never lingers. 

“You know,” Jaskier blurts, before he can properly think about it, “if you wanted to cuddle, you could’ve just asked.” 

Geralt makes an indecipherable noise and says, his voice tense and measured, “Go to sleep, Jask.” 

But he doesn’t take his hand away, like Jaskier expected. Instead, his grip tightens, almost protectively, almost like it’s meant to be reassuring, and Jaskier falls asleep with that warmth burning through his shirt.

**+1.**

Geralt’s been avoiding him for weeks. Well—okay, not  _ avoiding, _ but he’s definitely less talkative than usual. Before, Jaskier could at least sometimes expect a real response with real words, or a full-blown conversation if he was lucky, but now all he gets are grunts and hums. Which mean absolutely nothing, beyond being annoying. And, to make matters worse, Geralt’s been acting like he’d die if he touched Jaskier. He flinches if Jaskier brushes his arm when they walk, grimaces if they bump shoulders, pointedly slides over if Jaskier sits beside him. He doesn’t let Jaskier pay for their rooms anymore—and if sharing a room happens to be the most affordable option, he refuses and stubbornly spends the extra coin. Coin which, frankly, they don’t always have to spare.

It’s gotten worse the past few days. Last time they stopped at a town, two days ago, Geralt thought it made more sense to spend the night in the inn’s stables than accept the one room they had left. Jaskier tried to argue, but of course Geralt wouldn’t listen. He isn’t so sure either of them slept well that night. 

Which is why he’s currently sulking at the back of a packed, slightly seedy tavern instead of performing. They’ve stopped at some other shabby town whose name Jaskier won’t bother remembering, and they’ll probably be gone before dawn tomorrow, and he just can’t find it in himself to care about making money. There’s no point in performing if he can’t put his heart into it. He can’t disgrace his reputation by moping on the stage like some sad, heartbroken loser.

No, it’s much easier to wallow in his own misery back here, in the corner, with his face pressed uncomfortably against the wall. Everything smells like stale beer and piss, but he isn’t complaining. He’s dealt with worse. 

Geralt’s out on a contract, which is the only reason he’s getting away with this anyway. If Geralt were here, Jaskier would plaster on a fake smile and sing the most ridiculous songs he could think of, and he’d be even more energetic than usual, so that the locals wouldn’t catch on to his melancholy. 

Well. Perhaps it’s better that Geralt’s not here, then, because otherwise, Jaskier’s pretty sure he’d get them kicked out. No one wants to hear about a pathetic bard pining for the Continent’s most idiotic Witcher. There—he said it. He’s  _ pining. _

Jaskier doesn’t know when it happened, can’t pinpoint a when or where or how or why, but somewhere along the way, he fell in love with Geralt. It was only a crush at first, and he thought—hoped—it would fade, but… clearly it hasn’t, if he’s resorted to moping in some backwater tavern. 

“Jaskier.”

Jaskier waves his hand and mumbles, hoping whoever it is will just leave him alone. 

“Jaskier,” the person repeats. 

And—wait a second. He knows that voice: annoyed, grumpy, ridiculously husky. 

Jaskier turns his head to acknowledge Geralt, just as he slides in the opposite seat. He’s still wearing his armour; from the cursory glance he steals, Jaskier can’t find any tears or injuries, and he silently lets out a breath of relief. 

“Hmm?” Jaskier mumbles.

Geralt lets out a sigh. “I got our rooms for the night. The alderman paid extra for the second—”

“Bruxa?” Jaskier guesses half-heartedly.

“Kikimora,” Geralt corrects. He narrows his eyes at Jaskier, opens his mouth—and then promptly shuts it, settling for another sigh instead of whatever he originally wanted to say. “Have you had anything to eat yet?”

Jaskier waves his hand. “No, I’m not very hungry.”

“Right,” Geralt drawls. “Well, I’m going to go take a bath. Here’s your key. I’ll see you later, then?”

Jaskier nods, frowns at the table as Geralt sets his key down. “Yeah,” he mumbles. 

He watches Geralt leave, follows his retreating figure until he disappears from his line of sight. The key to his room feels heavy in his hands—just another sad reminder of his current situation. He must’ve done something to make Geralt want to avoid him so badly, must’ve stepped out of line or said the wrong thing or just generally made himself unwelcome. And that’s the worst part, isn’t it? Everyone always tires of Jaskier eventually. Sometimes it takes hours, sometimes days—usually no longer than a few weeks. And he had hoped—foolishly, it seems—that this time, it wouldn’t be the case. That perhaps, because Geralt’s never  _ seriously _ tried to get rid of him in the years they’ve known each other, it meant that Geralt… liked his company. Or tolerated it, at the very least.

Well. All good things come to an end, right? Jaskier was stupid to think he could have this, that Geralt would never tire him of, that he’d have his Witcher, even if it wasn’t in the way he wanted. He would’ve settled for anything, if it meant still having Geralt in his life. Geralt only has to ask—he’d crawl to the edge of the world and beyond. 

Jaskier stays in his pathetic little corner until the barmaid’s sympathetic glances start to get on his nerves. He appreciates her—she keeps coming back with refills, and she never asks for payment, but he doesn’t want her pity. This is his own damn fault, anyway.  _ He’s _ the one who thought, like an absolute idiot, that he might  _ possibly  _ have a chance at— 

It doesn’t matter now. He might as well just stay the night, since it’d be rude to waste the money Geralt already spent on it, and leave tomorrow morning—no goodbye, no  _ see you later, _ no ceremony. It’s not like Geralt would miss him. 

Disheartened and thoroughly miserable, Jaskier shuffles through the crowded tavern and trudges up the stairs to his room. A loud, drunk man bumps into him on his way, nearly spilling his tankard full of ale all over his doublet, but Jaskier can’t find it in himself to care. Maybe, he reasons, having to clean his clothes before the smell doesn’t wash out would take his mind off Geralt. It’d give him something to do, anyway—besides moping. 

The quiet upstairs is even worse than the boisterous drunks below. Jaskier can hear the din of animated conversations through the creaky floorboards, but he can’t make anything out; it’s nothing more than background noise, like a dull headache he can’t quite get rid of. He’s always hated silence—but now, it’s a hundred times worse. It’s empty, stretching out like a dark abyss, carving out even more hollow spaces for him to fill with  _ Geralt doesn’t like me, Geralt doesn’t want me, Geralt hates me, Geralt’s life would be better if I were gone. _

Gods, he must sound pathetic. He  _ feels _ pathetic. 

Jaskier’s room is small, but not terrible by any means. It’s got a decent-sized bed—better than the singles he usually has—and a window that looks out on the street, with a latch and everything. At least this one closes, unlike the window at the last inn they were at. It’s already an improvement. 

Sighing, Jaskier slowly strips off his clothes and tosses them on the floor, not particularly caring where they land. He turns off the light before he crawls into bed and wraps himself up in the blanket. It’s thin, and a little itchy, and it won’t do much to keep him warm during the night—but it’s good enough. He’ll take whatever he can get.

But he can’t sleep. Not yet, anyway, not with all the thoughts running through his head, growing so loud they fill his lungs and his veins and seep through his bones. So instead of even trying, Jaskier just curls up on his side, one hand shoved under his pillow, and stares out into the dark. If he strains, he can hear the clamour of people in the tavern—an especially rowdy laugh, a group of men slurring as they try to remember the words of some folk song, the shatter of ale tankards falling off tables. It’s comforting in its own strange way, like a lullaby. Like— 

Jaskier buries his face in his pillow and stifles a sob. No, he can’t think about that. He can’t give in, can’t think about how often he’d fall asleep to the steady rhythm of Geralt’s heartbeat, can’t remember how safe he used to feel in Geralt’s arms, can’t— 

It’s going to be a very long night.

* * *

_ He feels it before he sees it. The leshen—monstrous, huge, terrifying. It looms over him like a fortress, its mossy, wooden claws slowly unfurling and slashing his side. He howls, reaches to cover the wound, but it’s no use. Blood pours out, thick and dark and red, so red; it pools at his feet, drips down his shirt, stains his fingers. The leshen strikes again, deep and unrelenting, on his left side, right over his ribs—and before he can move to defend himself, it grabs him by the collar of his shirt and yanks him up. _

_ His skin is burning. He flails, gasps for air, tries to stem the bleeding, but it won’t stop. It can’t stop. His arms are covered in cuts, his chest is torn, and the blood just keeps pouring and pouring. The leshen tightens one hand around his neck and squeezes, and he tries to push it off, tries to fight back, tries to—  _

_ He feels his bones getting crushed, and he’s starting to get light-headed. All he can see now is the leshen’s empty eye sockets, the clean white of its skull, its antlers. The sky is no longer visible; neither is the ground, or the forest—there’s nothing beyond the leshen.  _

_ And then—he spots him, standing at the edge of the clearing. At first, he thinks he’s making it up, but then he sees him again, clear as day. Geralt. Geralt, who’s—who’s just standing there, arms crossed, looking bored. Rolling his eyes. Like he’d rather be anywhere else, like he thinks this is a waste of his time, like he’s about to leave any second. _

_ “Geralt!” he chokes out, flailing his arms around to get his attention. “Geralt, help! Help me!” _

_ His voice is hoarse and quiet, and he doesn’t even know if Geralt can hear him. He hasn’t made any indication if he has. He’s still staring straight ahead, unblinking, stony-faced. _

_ “Geralt!” he calls again. He’s gasping now, his breaths so shallow he isn’t sure they even count; his vision is going blurry, and he’s crying, desperate and so, so afraid. “Please, Geralt, please,” he sobs. “Please, help me!” _

_ But Geralt doesn’t do anything. He only turns his head the slightest bit to look at him, but he doesn’t move. He’s making it clear without saying a single word: he isn’t going to help.  _

_ The leshen’s grip grows tighter, and tighter, and—  _

Jaskier wakes with a sob. He sits up, clenching the blanket so hard that his hands hurt; there are tears running down his cheeks, and his chest is heaving, and he feels—he feels like he can’t breathe. Slowly, he tries to calm down, but he knows it won’t do anything; he can’t stop crying, and his hands are shaking, and it… it had just felt so  _ real. _

He drops his head and lets out another choked sob. And then the door bangs open. Jaskier startles, immediately reaching for a weapon—which, he realizes a little late, he doesn’t even have. He takes a sharp breath, tries to wipe the tears from his eyes so that he doesn’t look pathetic, and looks up to see who it is.

“Jaskier? What happened? I came as soon as I—”

Of course it’s Geralt. Of  _ fucking _ course. That’s just Jaskier’s luck. He can’t see him in the dark, but he’d recognize that voice, and that ridiculously muscular silhouette, anywhere. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt repeats, softer this time. Tentatively, he makes his way into Jaskier’s room. The glint of his sword catches in the light from the hall. “What’s wrong?”

Distantly, Jaskier notes how sweet it is that Geralt came to check up on him. But he doesn’t want to dwell on that now—it probably doesn’t mean anything, anyway—so he just shakes his head and sniffles. 

“Nothing,” Jaskier says. He cringes when he hears his voice waver. It’s obvious he’s been crying. At least Geralt can’t actually see his—no, never mind. He can probably see exactly how miserable Jaskier looks. “Nothing’s wrong, I’m fine. Go back to sleep.”

Geralt lets out a breath. “I wasn’t sleeping,” he says. 

Now that he’s closer, Jaskier can actually see him—the sharp outline of his jaw, the ring of amber around his dilated pupils, his hair, as soft and wavy as it always is after a bath. Jaskier resists the urge to card his fingers through it. 

“I—” Geralt pauses, hesitant, and then slowly sits on the edge of the bed, letting his sword clatter on the floor. Like he’s afraid Jaskier’s going to kick him off or something. “Jaskier, stop lying. I heard you crying, I—I thought something happened, that someone tried to—”

He sounds uncharacteristically worried. His voice is tense, broken, like he’s trying to speak without breaking down. 

“It was just a nightmare,” Jaskier says quietly. He feels bad that he got Geralt so worked up over this. “I’m fine, really. You can—you don’t have to stay here. I’ll be okay.”

Geralt lets out a breath of relief, but he doesn’t make any move to leave. Instead, he asks, “What was it about?”

And before he can even think about it, Jaskier tells him. The words seem to spill out on their own, entirely out of his control. He tells Geralt about the leshen, and the blood, and the forest, and—and about Geralt himself. His heart hammers in his chest as he watches Geralt’s face for any sign of anger, or annoyance, or disappointment. But that never comes. Geralt only frowns, like he’s sad, like he’s… well, if Jaskier didn’t know any better, he’d say his expression is heartbroken. That doesn’t make sense, though.

Geralt doesn’t say anything for a long time after Jaskier stops talking. And then, just as Jaskier really starts to think it was a bad idea, he whispers, “Do you really think I’d do that?”

No, Jaskier doesn’t really think that. Geralt’s never done anything to make him think that. And he knows, logically, that even if Geralt doesn’t like him personally, he’d still protect him from a monster—it is his job, after all. But right now, he’s not so sure he  _ believes  _ it. His hurt is still so raw. 

“Jask,” Geralt says, so soft it doesn’t feel real. Slowly, tentatively, he takes Jaskier’s hand in his own and presses his thumb against his wrist. “I—I need you to know that—that I—”

Jaskier sniffles. “You don’t have to say anything, really.”

Geralt huffs. “No, I do. You—” he lets out an exasperated breath. “Jaskier, I—I care about you. And—I’m sorry if it didn’t… if you felt like I don’t—”

“It’s okay,” Jaskier whispers. He smiles, because even though the room is dark, he knows Geralt can see it. “It’s okay, I know this isn’t the easiest thing for you. You really don’t have to—”

“No,” Geralt growls. His grip on Jaskier’s wrist tightens absentmindedly, like a reflex. “No, that’s the  _ problem. _ It’s not okay, Jask, stop saying it is. I—I hurt you, I know I did. I didn’t mean to. I just… I needed space. To think. To—to sort something out.” He pauses, eyes downcast. “I love you.” 

He says it quietly, so faint that Jaskier has to strain to hear it—but it’s the loudest thing he’s ever heard. It echoes in the silent room, reverberates in his bones, fills the space in his heart that’s always been reserved for Geralt. It’s warm and soft and gentle. Jaskier’s afraid of breaking it. 

“Geralt,” he whispers, “I love you too.”

He hears Geralt take a sharp, broken breath—and then he’s shifting closer, cradling Jaskier’s face in his hands, running a calloused thumb over his lower lip. There’s barely any space between them; they’re practically sharing the same breath. In the dark, in the silence, this feels sacred beyond measure. 

“I need you to know,” Geralt says, “that I’d never do that.”

Jaskier’s eyes flutter shut, and he leans in, almost instinctively, to Geralt’s warm touch. “I know.”

Geralt tilts his head, brushes in closer, and his lips ghost over Jaskier’s cheek when he asks, “Let me stay?” 

He knows what Geralt’s trying to say, knows the vulnerable confession slipping through his honest, gentle voice. 

“It’s hard for me to sleep when you’re not there too,” Jaskier replies. He opens his eyes—and catches a glimpse of the most beautiful smile he’s ever seen. “You can  _ always _ stay. You don’t even have to ask.” 

“And what if I wanted to kiss you?” Geralt asks.

Jaskier’s breath catches in his throat, and he’s sure he’s blushing, but this time… well, he doesn’t bother hiding it. “Then I wouldn’t deny you.”

Geralt tilts Jaskier’s chin up, hands still warm on his jaw, and kisses him. His lips are softer than Jaskier could’ve ever imagined; he tastes like vanilla and ale and something he can’t quite name. One hand drifts down to Jaskier’s waist, firm and steady and grounding, burning through his shirt. And Jaskier—Jaskier just wants to drink him in, to kiss and kiss and kiss until he’s sore, until there’s nothing but Geralt on his mind. 

Jaskier opens his mouth, wraps his arms around Geralt’s neck, and climbs onto his lap. Slowly, he grinds down, and he can’t help but grin when he feels Geralt take in a sharp breath. There’ll be bruises on his hips in the morning, he’s sure of it—but he doesn’t mind. No, he likes the idea of having something on his skin, something to remind him that this isn’t all a dream. He likes the idea of Geralt leaving marks, of being claimed by his Witcher.  _ His  _ Witcher. Oh, how good it feels to say that. 

“Geralt,” Jaskier pants against his lips.

Geralt hums, moves to press soft kisses along his jaw and down the curve of his throat. His hands roam relentlessly, but his touches are gentle and slow, more curious than anything else; there’s no fervor in the way he ghosts his fingers over every bit of skin he can reach, just a tender, quiet love. It speaks volumes—more than any words ever could. 

“Geralt,” Jaskier breaths, “mm, please, I—”

Geralt dips his head to kiss his shoulder and says, “No, not tonight.”

He pauses and looks up—his eyes glow with fond affection, and his lips are quirked up in the smallest of smiles, and Jaskier just  _ melts. _ He cups Geralt’s cheek in one hand and leans down to kiss him. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to that.

“What about Witchers being so  _ lustful? _ ” Jaskier teases, sliding a hand down Geralt’s chest. 

Geralt hums, grins, and slowly, with his hands still on his waist, lays Jaskier down on the bed. “I’ll tell you what,” he whispers, his voice practically a growl, “I promise to fuck you tomorrow so hard, you’ll forget your own name.”

“Ooh,” Jaskier giggles, “don’t get me all excited.”

“What a shame,” Geralt drawls, monotone. He’s still perched above Jaskier, his hair falling in his face, hands on either side of his shoulders. “I thought that’d get you to go to sleep for sure.”

Jaskier laughs again, pulling Geralt down for another kiss—he’ll never tire of kissing him. “Darling,” he coos, “you don’t know me at all.”

Geralt just huffs, but he’s smiling, and that alone means the whole world. He drops down beside Jaskier and wraps his arms around his waist, holding him close. Jaskier shifts so that he’s facing Geralt and smiles. 

“At least try to sleep,” Geralt says. “I had a long day.”

“Mm,” Jaskier agrees. 

Geralt kisses him softly, lets his lips linger against Jaskier’s for a moment, and whispers, “Good night.”

“Good night, Geralt,” Jaskier says. 

He snuggles against Geralt’s chest, closes his eyes, focuses on the soothing  circles Geralt’s drawing on his back, and falls asleep with the promise of a kiss in the morning.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm on tumblr @carolsdncvers! (i'm on a hiatus, but you can always shoot me a message!) :D


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